The fight lasted seven minutes.
Meera knew because she counted her breaths—four breaths per minute when you're trying not to scream, trying not to move, trying to become stone against the cave wall while men die ten feet away.
Twenty-eight breaths.
Twenty-eight moments where the world narrowed to sound: bone cracking, flesh tearing, the wet gurgle of a man drowning in his own blood. Dren's voice, confident and cruel when he entered, becoming thin and desperate as the amber-eyed male's claws opened his throat.
Twenty-eight breaths, and then silence.
The kind of silence that follows violence—heavy, thick with the copper-sweet smell of death.
Meera's hands had stopped shaking. That frightened her more than when they'd trembled. Her body had learned, in twenty-eight breaths, to accept slaughter as natural. As necessary.
*Is this who I am now?*
The amber-eyed male turned from the cave mouth. His dark gray fur was matted with blood—not his own. In the dim light filtering through the entrance, his amber eyes seemed to glow with something between satisfaction and disgust.
"They're dealt with," he said. His voice was rough, like he'd forgotten how to speak gently. Maybe he had. "Three dead. Four ran. They won't come back."
Meera opened her mouth. No sound came out.
She tried again. "Thank you."
The words felt absurd. Inadequate. What do you say to someone who just killed for you? Someone who didn't owe you anything, who probably should have thrown you out, who had every reason not to care whether you lived or died?
The male's expression didn't change. "Don't thank me. I didn't do it for you."
That stung more than it should have.
He continued, "I did it because those men insulted us by thinking we'd cower. Because they called us beast-filth and assumed we'd bend." He wiped blood from his claws with deliberate slowness. "You were just... convenient justification."
Behind him, the others emerged from fighting stances. The stone-skinned one moved to the cave mouth, checking the bodies with clinical efficiency. The feathered female leaned against the wall, breathing hard, a gash across her forearm dripping crimson onto the stone. The serpentine figure hadn't moved from their corner but watched everything with those unblinking slit pupils.
Meera forced herself to stand. Her legs protested, muscles screaming after three days of running and the sudden crash of adrenaline. She wobbled, caught herself on the wall.
"Still," she said, meeting the amber-eyed male's gaze. "You could have given me to them. You didn't. That counts for something."
He tilted his head, studying her like she was a puzzle. "You're still here."
"Where else would I go?"
"Away." He gestured toward the cave mouth, toward the bodies beyond. "You got what you needed. We killed your hunters. You're free to leave."
The casual dismissal hit harder than any insult. He'd killed for her—well, for his own pride, but the result was the same—and now he was done with her. Transaction complete.
Meera understood that language. Kiran had taught it to her well.
But something in her chest, something that had been curling inward since her father's death, since Kiran's betrayal, suddenly unclenched. Not opening. Not softening. But recognizing.
"I meant what I said," Meera heard herself say. "I owe you. And I don't run from debts."
The male's ears twitched—barely perceptible, but she caught it. Surprise.
"You have nothing to pay with."
"I have myself." The words came out stronger than she felt. "I can work. Hunt. Heal if you have medicines. I grew up in a mixed clan—I know how to navigate between human and beastmen customs. I can—"
"She can't hunt," the feathered female interrupted, her voice raspy with exhaustion. "Look at her. She's half-dead."
"She made it three days through the Marches," the stone-skinned one rumbled without looking up from his examination of the bodies. "That's more than most humans manage."
The serpentine figure spoke for the first time, voice soft and sibilant: "She smells of grief. Old grief and new. The kind that makes people either break or become dangerous."
All eyes turned to them. The figure didn't flinch under the attention, just kept those unsettling eyes fixed on Meera.
"Which are you?" they asked.
Meera thought about her father. About Kiran. About the two bodies of her own clan members she'd seen among the hunters—men who'd shared meals with her, who'd betrayed her father's vision for fear or profit or simple cruelty.
"I don't know yet," she admitted.
The serpentine figure's mouth curved—not quite a smile, but close. "Honest. Rare quality."
The amber-eyed male growled low in his throat. "This is foolish. We're outcasts, not a charity for broken humans. She'll slow us down. Get us killed."
"We're already dying," the feathered female said quietly. She gestured around the cave—the burnt-out fire, the scavenged supplies, the makeshift bedrolls that spoke of months, maybe years, of barely surviving. "Slowly, maybe. But dying. When was the last time any of us had a real meal? When did we last sleep without one eye open?"
"And how does *she* change that?" The male's voice dripped skepticism, but Meera heard something underneath it. Not curiosity, exactly. But not complete rejection either.
The female met his gaze. "I don't know. But we've been eight for four months, Kael. Eight outcasts who barely tolerate each other. Maybe nine is the number that tips us from 'dying slow' to 'surviving.'"
*Kael.* So the amber-eyed male had a name.
Kael looked at Meera again, and this time she forced herself not to look away. Let him see her exhaustion. Let him see the blood on her torn clothes, the desperation in her too-bright eyes, the tremor in her hands that came from hunger and fear and three days without rest.
Let him see she had nothing left to hide.
"One week," he said finally. "You stay one week. You work. You pull your weight. You don't complain, don't make demands, don't expect protection." He stepped closer, and Meera's hindbrain screamed at the proximity of his claws, his teeth, the raw physicality of him. "And if you become a liability, we send you out. No debate. No second chances. Understand?"
Meera nodded.
"Say it," he demanded.
"I understand. One week. I work. If I'm a liability, I leave."
Something in his expression shifted. Not softening—nothing so gentle. But the sharp edge dulled fractionally. He turned away.
"Renna," he called to the stone-skinned one. "Check the human for injuries. Zira—" the feathered female, "—see if we have anything edible left. Sivan—" the serpentine figure, "—can you do something about Zira's arm?"
They moved with practiced efficiency, these outcasts. Not quite a pack, but not quite strangers either. Meera watched them, trying to map the dynamics. Kael was clearly the de facto leader, though no one had named him such. Renna seemed to be the pragmatist, the one who dealt with logistics. Zira had the restless energy of a scout. And Sivan...
Sivan slithered—there was no other word for that liquid movement—toward Meera.
Up close, they were striking. Slender, androgynous, with iridescent green-gold scales scattered across their neck and shoulders like jewelry. Their forked tongue flicked out, tasting the air around Meera, and she fought the instinct to recoil.
"I don't bite without permission," Sivan said, voice carrying dark amusement. "Usually."
"That's not reassuring."
"It wasn't meant to be." They circled her slowly. "But I do heal. And you, little human, are running on empty. When did you last eat?"
Meera had to think. Time had become slippery. "Two days? Maybe three?"
"Water?"
"Yesterday. A stream."
"Sleep?"
"In snatches. An hour here, thirty minutes there when I couldn't run anymore."
Sivan's pupils dilated slightly. "You ran for three days on one meal and five hours of sleep."
"I ran because the alternative was worse."
"Fair enough." They produced a water skin from somewhere in their wrapped clothes. "Drink. Slowly. If you gulp, you'll vomit, and we don't have food to waste on stomachs that won't keep it."
Meera took the skin with shaking hands and sipped. The water was warm, slightly mineral-tasting, but it was liquid and her body sang with gratitude. She forced herself to drink slowly, to let each swallow settle before taking the next.
Sivan watched like a physician observing symptoms. "You'll sleep soon. Your body will demand it. When you wake, you eat. Then we see if you survive the week."
"Why are you helping me?" Meera asked.
The question seemed to surprise them. "Because Kael said to."
"No. I mean, why did you argue for me to stay? You could have stayed silent."
Sivan's expression became unreadable. "You ran toward us when you could have run anywhere. That suggests either stupidity or desperation profound enough to override self-preservation. I'm curious which."
"Both," Meera admitted.
That earned a ghost of a smile. "Then we'll get along fine. Come. Sit before you fall."
Meera let herself be guided to a clear space near the dead fire pit. Renna was already gathering dried dung and deadwood, building a new fire with the methodical patience of someone who'd done this a thousand times. Zira returned with a pouch of something—dried meat, maybe, or preserved fruit—and began dividing it with scrupulous fairness.
Nine portions. Including one for Meera.
She stared at the small pile placed before her. "I haven't earned this."
"You will," Zira said. "Or you won't, and we'll have wasted one portion of food. But right now, you're alive, you're here, and that means you eat."
Meera picked up a strip of what turned out to be dried meat—some kind of lizard, by the texture—and bit down. Her jaw ached. Her stomach cramped. But it was food.
She chewed mechanically, watching the others. Kael sat apart, his back to the wall, eyes on the cave entrance. Renna tended the fire with absolute focus. Zira ate quickly, nervously, her eyes darting to the entrance every few moments. Sivan barely touched their portion, more interested in observing everyone else.
And there were four others Meera hadn't yet cataloged—another Shadowpaw male, younger than Kael, with lighter fur; a stocky female with the same stone-skin as Renna; a wiry male with feathers similar to Zira's; and what looked like a human male, though his eyes held the same haunted quality as the beastmen.
Nine souls. Nine outcasts.
*Nine pieces that don't fit anywhere else.*
Meera swallowed her portion and felt her body begin to shut down. The adrenaline was gone. The fear had exhausted itself. Now there was only the gravity of too many sleepless hours pulling her under.
"Where do I sleep?" she asked Sivan.
They pointed to an empty bedroll near the fire. "There. Don't worry about someone cutting your throat. We settle disputes in daylight."
"That's not reassuring either."
"Still not trying to be."
Meera crawled to the bedroll. It smelled of old sweat and stone dust,but it wasflat and stationary and her body didn't care about comfort anymore. She lay down, her mother's bone beads pressing into her collarbone.
Through half-closed eyes, she saw Kael watching her from across the cave. His expression was unreadable.
She wanted to say something. Thank you, maybe. Or ask why he'd really chosen to fight. Or demand to know if he truly believed she'd last a week.
But exhaustion dragged her down before words could form.
Her last conscious thought was a strange one: *He smells like smoke and wild earth.*
And for the first time in four days, she didn't dream of Kiran's betrayal.
She dreamed of amber eyes in darkness, and a voice asking: *Which are you—broken, or dangerous?*